


The Ring of Barahir

by hennethgalad



Category: Silmarillion
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 16:30:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10364733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Finrod is inspired to make a ringthis is for the SWG challenge 'Strength and Beauty'





	

 

  
         The Ring Of Barahir.

 

   Finrod sat nervously on his hands on the carven stone bench outside Mahtan's smithy and leaned his head back against the wall. They were in there now, Mahtan and the two other master smiths, judging his work, to assess Finrod's readiness to attempt his own masterpiece and finally be accepted as a smith.

  
   It had been his mother's suggestion, he had been dreaming over his harp for long enough, she said, it was time to try another craft, and she had invited celebrated smiths to social events, pointedly admiring their robust physiques. Finrod had smiled self-consciously, his own arms could at best be considered wiry. But now, after years of grappling with hammers and tongs, he was beginning to draw glances from those who would previously have ignored him. He was proud, too, of the things he had made, useful tools, goblets, even a garden chair for his mother.  
  
   Mahtan appeared in the door, smiling and taking a deep breath; Laurelin filled the air with still, golden light, the sounds of the smithy had ended and the many birds in the gardens around them seemed almost to purr like cats. Finrod looked up and saw the smile. He made to rise, but Mahtan waved him down and sat beside him.

  
   'No, youngster, let me sit with you awhile, even the mightiest smith wearies in the end.'  
He made himself comfortable and stretched. Finrod tried not to grit his teeth or interrupt.

   Finally Mahtan smiled at him.

  
   'You may make a ring, Finrod, your own ring, to prove you are a master smith.'  
Finrod's face worked, but his lips seemed to be moving without his control, he could not reply. Mahtan grinned 'Never mind, I was the same when my turn came. Now, you must take your time, there will be no more judging, no more supervision. You are now a smith. The ring is for you alone, only your pride in your craft is at stake, only you will judge, only you will wear it, and when you do, you will know what you have accomplished.'  
  
   Finrod was silent for a while. He looked down at the ring on Mahtan's right hand, it had been made as a wreath, woven branches of gold and silver wound and twisted around his finger, it was widely held to be the finest piece crafted by an elf, even Aulë himself had admired it, Aulë who was so sparing with praise, or even words... He wondered how, or even whether, he could accomplish something as elaborate, especially without blatantly copying the ring of Mahtan.

  
   'Thank you sire' Finrod said finally 'I... you will understand what this means to me... I...'

   Mahtan stood and clapped him on the back 'I do know. Truly.'  
  
   He smiled into Finrod's eyes, seeing the nervousness and pride swirling in the turmoil of Finrod's heart. It had been a long, difficult apprenticeship, for Finrod's creativity flowed in different channels, but his will was mightier than almost any that Mahtan had ever met, and the determination that had driven Finrod to begin again, over and over again, until he had succeeded to his own exacting standards, had left Mahtan secretly relieved, finally, that it was in music that Finrod's heart truly lay. Fëanor had been enough to crush any teacher, he had far outpaced Mahtan. But if Finrod had been interested, it was clear he would have been the only new master-smith Fëanor would have considered working with.

   But all were aware that not only did Finrod long to return to his harp, he was concerned that the smithy had coarsened his fingers and would hamper him at play.

 

   Mahtan collected his thoughts and smiled again.  
   'Now then, firstly you must inform your anxious mother that you are now a smith. Then you will remind your absent-minded father. Then you must find your friends and celebrate. Finally, after a period of rest, you may begin to consider you ring.'

  
   Finrod looked into the kindly green eyes 'I... I wish to thank you, sire, not just on my behalf, but for all the members of my family you have helped.'

  
   Mahtan laughed at him 'They are my family too, Finrod, your cousins are my grandchildren, what else could I do ?'

  
   Finrod looked down, embarrassed, but Mahtan laughed again 'So serious ! Finrod, my dear boy, it has been a pleasure to train all of you, and even if you had all been unable to tell one end of a hammer from the other, I would still have been willing to help you, for the sake of working with the incredible Fëanor !'

  
   Finrod looked up at the mention of his gifted uncle 'What is he working on now, do you know ? None of my family even pretend to knowledge of his activities, not even Maedhros.'

  
   Mahtan smiled sadly 'Alas, it is a very long time since last my favourite pupil confided in me. He has dismissed all but his devoted aide, and not a single elf otherwise has even entered that smithy. In truth, I long to see what he has been crafting, there may be new techniques for all to share, or something lovely to admire.' He smiled 'Impatience gnaws at me !'

  
   Finrod smiled 'My little ring must seem trivial compared to Fëanor's great work.'

  
   Mahtan tilted his head one side 'Ah, but Fëanor would give it all up in an instant for the voice and skill to sing to the harp like you, young Finrod.'

 

   The avenue outside Mahtan's smithy was dusty, Finrod was hot and thirsty, he crossed to the fountain and held his hands into the sparkling fall, and drank with his eyes closed, holding the cool water against his face. When he opened his eyes, he blinked, then held very still, hardly breathing. A long snake, of a type unfamiliar to him, had leaned its sleek head over the edge of the basin and was lapping at the water, its forked tongue flickering in and out of its mouth like a ribbon in a breeze. The light of Laurelin gave a greenish hue to its jewel-like eyes, its smooth polished skin seemed to invite his touch.

   He smiled, remembering that though this was Valinor, Yavanna had given strength even to the serpents, and few could confidently distinguish the safe from the venomous.

  
   He gasped, it felt like a message, he could feel the music surge within him, the ring, he thought, the ring ! His own father's emblem of two serpents with a crown of golden flowers, how marvellous a ring it would make, and here was a snake, before the very door of Mahtan's smithy, with eyes like jewels, crowned with the golden light of Laurelin.

   He almost laughed aloud. Water leaped from his hands and splashed into the basin. The snake flickered its tongue and poured itself away down the column and into the flowers.

 

 


End file.
